


When In Orlais

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Mark of the Assassin, Orlesian Fashion is Absurd, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why she decided to bring <i>him</i> to Orlais is anyone's guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted a jealous Fenris and a Hawke allowed to have a better outfit than that ghastly choice of dress at the garden party. There is also a lovely sketch for this fic by verabai, over at this link: http://verabai.tumblr.com/post/61152924801/when-in-orlais-based-on-the-ficlet-of-the-same

“Ugh. I’m not cut out for this.”

The mutter barely reaches Fenris from behind the screen. There’s a rustle, a muffled curse. He shifts to the other foot. Any minute now, she’s going to call out, or—Andraste help him—actually  _come_ out. He’s uncomfortable enough as it is with no armor to hide behind, only the red scarf still tied around his wrist beneath his sleeve—an accusation, a cold comfort. Imagining  _her_ dressing behind that overwrought screen is a step too much, discomfort and arousal heating up his neck and ears in equal measure. Tallis promised she would only be a minute, Void take her—the wink she gave him as she went made his blood boil—and he can’t very well leave Hawke unguarded while she’s vulnerable.

Too many years of fighting at her side. He can never put the sword down.

The other guests, the lord himself—Fenris doesn’t trust them. He sees the way they look at her, like a prize to be won or an obstacle to be removed, and he can’t allow it. He won’t.

“Tallis,” she calls out, an edge of frustration in her voice. “I can’t get this last button, can you…”

Hands working behind her back, head ducked in frustration, Hawke steps out from behind the screen. He takes an automatic step back, even though there is nowhere to go.

 _Why did she bring me here?_ he thinks helplessly, as she curses under her breath again. She still hasn’t looked up.  _Was it to torture me?_

There is nothing different about her hair, of course; she wears it too short to be styled the way of the Orlesian partygoers. A single jet lock falls, stubborn as ever, just over the bridge of her nose, standing in stark contrast to her blue eyes and pale skin. It’s the dress that transforms her. He’s rarely seen her out of armor, and certainly in nothing like this. It’s more subtle than the gowns of the other partygoers, a deep black too somber for this absurdly ceremonial affair, with a red sash tight around her waist; a pinpoint blue gem rests bright against her exposed collarbone. It’s all very—

“Does it look that bad?”

Only years of careful training keep him from startling; when he glances back to her face, a small smile has pulled up one corner of her mouth. “Bad?” he repeats. His mouth is curiously dry. “Not at all. Though how you plan to break and enter wearing  _that_ —”

“Not so loudly,” she sighs, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “You have all the subtlety of a bronto sometimes, Fen. Where’s Tallis?”

“Perhaps she tired of your flirting,” he says stiffly. “She stepped out.”

“Tallis,” she tells him crossly, “is perfectly equipped to handle my flirting, thank you. It’s all in good fun. Would you do the honors?” She turns her back to him, her arms still twisted up trying to slide the last button through the catch. “How noblewomen ever fit into these things,” she mutters.

“You are a noblewoman,” he points out, moving closer. “They usually require a number of servants.”

She huffs out a laugh. Her shoulder blades lift, visible above the thin material of the gown, and he watches the muscle and scar tissue pull over them. He hasn’t seen her this bare since…

“I’m the daughter of a noblewoman,” she replies. “It’s not the same thing.”

He catches her hands in his and lowers them to her sides. They go peculiarly still the instant he touches her; the lyrium in his skin burns. It has been a month since they last touched, and every day has passed through his hands like a sieve, wasted. She’s kept her distance since he left—no,  _fled_ —her estate that night, and he hasn’t tried to bridge the gap, instead holing up in Danarius’s mansion like the coward he is and destroying a good corner of the wine cellar left to him. It was only when she appeared on his doorstep, drawn and reserved, that he had shaken off his drunken haze and left Hightown.

There were worse things, he’d told himself, than Orlais. Since then, he’d come to reconsider that.

There’s a knife tucked into her breast band; his fingers brush the shape of it as he slips the black pearl button through the fabric. He has no doubt that there are others, carefully concealed on her person. He lets his hands fall. He’s little more than a trespasser here now.

“I should have gone the Tallis route,” she sighs. She picks at the dress, examining herself in the mirror, smoothing it carefully over her hips. “But, no. I was lured by the slinky dress.”

“Tallis doesn’t look nearly as beautiful as you,” he murmurs before he can stop himself; before he remembers, painfully, that their flirtation is at an end, and surely such a statement is inappropriate—

But her eyes meet his in the mirror, and she smiles, albeit sadly. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “You clean up well yourself.”

This close, he can feel the warmth of her body. He wants nothing more than to strip the fabric from the flush of her skin, to press his lips to every centimeter of her flesh. Her cheeks burn under his gaze, as though she knows, but her lips tighten and her eyes lower. No—that door is closed to him now, and this sham of a friendship is all that he deserves for walking away from her.

“Are you certain this party is a good idea?” he asks, before the silence can become too stifling.

She snorts. “No. I’m not sure any of this was a good idea. Maker help me, I hate Orlais,” she adds in a mutter. “But we’re here now, and we might as well enjoy ourselves before I inevitably ruin this dress in the escape attempt.”

“Are you planning on getting captured?”

“No. That would be a terrible plan.” She kneels down, lifts the hem of the dress—he’s relieved to see that she’s still wearing boots, the sensible ones with broken-in soles she’s been wearing since the Deep Roads—and double-checks the dagger that’s hidden there, too. “Call it a hunch. I can’t wear something nice without something terrible happening. Remember mother’s Satinalia party?”

“Vividly,” he replies, and unbidden, the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile. “That dress was much more absurd than this one.”

She swats playfully at his arm. “It was  _festive_. It made mother smile.”

“And laugh,” he points out, “when the dog knocked over the wine.”

Her lips twitch. “So many fine silks, ruined for the sake of her amusement.”

They smile at one another for a moment before her smirk fades, leaving her features older than before.

“Tallis is nothing to me,” she says quietly. “And you would do well to remember that  _you_ are the one who walked out. No one is inflicting your solitude on you but yourself.”

He wants to tell her so many things: that he didn’t want to leave; that he would take it back without further consideration; that she is everything, that he is nothing—but Tallis chooses that moment to poke her head through the door, breaking their fragile connection.

“Party’s a-wastin’,” she chirps, with a smirk that’s far too knowing for his liking. “Let’s get this over with.”

Hawke sighs beside him. “Indeed.”

“Cheer up, Hawke.” The door swings wider to reveal Varric. His chest hair, for once, is out of sight. “It’s the social event of the year.”

“That’s just code for, ‘A self-obsessed lunatic will try to grope your ass after too much wine.’” She looks vaguely nauseous at the thought. “I would pass, if I could.”

“That’s what your date is for,” Varric says innocently, eyes darting sideways to Fenris. “To ward off unwelcome attentions.”

Without further ado, he offers his arm to Tallis, who accepts it amiably. The two wander out into the hall and toward the sound of the party, leaving Hawke glowering faintly in their wake. She deflates just as quickly, though, and slips her hand through the crook of his arm. He welcomes the warmth, even if he does not deserve it.

“You know that thing you do,” she muses as they follow their companions out. “Where you rip peoples’ hearts out of their chests?”

Surprised, he chuckles. The tension that has separated them since they left Kirkwall eases, if only a fraction. “If you aren’t worried about disrupting the party, neither am I.”

“Good,” she says cheerfully. “All this sneaking around isn’t really to my taste, anyway.”

There must be better things, he thinks, than Orlais. But right now, none come to mind.


	2. Chapter 2

“They’re not talking. Why aren’t they talking?”

Varric glances up from the cheese plate with reluctance. Tallis’s gaze is across the courtyard, near the fountain; Hawke is toying with a caprice, Fenris frowning at the nearby nobles. The space between them is painfully visible.

“They’re talking,” he hedges.

Tallis raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Not to each other. What is  _wrong_ with those two?”

“I have a list somewhere,” he says vaguely, eyeing the couple.

Hawke wears her best charming smile for Prosper’s son—trying to wheedle the key to the castle out of him, no doubt—and Fenris just glares. His white finery does very little to hide the gently glowing lyrium tattooed into his flesh. The lord’s son seems unconcerned, but the other men standing nearby give both Hawke and her companion a wide berth.  _Exactly what the elf wants_ , Varric thinks, a little amused. It’s a little rich, though, to be so covetous of something that isn’t even his.

“I’m going over there,” Tallis announces suddenly. “We’re wasting time. You and Fenris can look for another way in—Hawke and I will stay here and socialize.”

Her heels click sharply on the flagstone as she marches away. She obviously doesn’t fear her heart being ripped out; she inserts herself between Hawke and Fenris without ceremony, dropping a truncated curtsy to the Prosper’s son. Hawke flicks a glance to Fenris, and with the slightest jerk of her chin, tells him to go.

It’s a mark of his regard for her, Varric thinks, that the elf obeys without question, even if it’s clearly against his will to do so.

“You know, your face could get stuck like that,” Varric comments.

“Come,” Fenris says, ignoring this. “We will need another way in.”

They stroll the perimeter of the castle in silence for a while, ducking out of sight when guards pass by. It’s getting on toward sunset, and the glower of Fenris’s lyrium hasn’t quite faded; they’re going to be a beacon when night falls.

“About Hawke,” Varric puts forth cautiously.

The frown ceases immediately. In fact, Fenris’s features are suddenly perfectly neutral. “What about her?” he replies.

“Seemed like you two…you know. Had a good thing going. It was the scandal of Hightown. Well,” Varric amends, “Hawke was already the scandal of Hightown, but—”

“We are not involved,” Fenris cuts in.

“Tell that to the nobles too scared to even look at her,” Varric challenges. “Maybe you’re not involved  _now_ , but…”

The elf’s eyebrows draw together. “What has she told you?” he asks guardedly. His eyes flick briefly to where Varric’s crossbow usually hangs.

Varric is a little protective of Hawke—they all are, in their own way—but he wouldn’t dare to enact revenge on her behalf. She would probably kill him. Or at least berate him. He hates being berated by Hawke.

“Nothing,” Varric says innocently, though that isn’t strictly true. “I can read between the lines. For years, you two were thick as thieves, and now you’re back to dancing alone in that creepy mansion of yours. The swill at the Hanged Man not good enough for you anymore? Or did something  _happen_?”

Fenris deflates a little. He and Hawke share this quality—deflect, deflect, deflect, but if you find the right pressure point, the night ends with one of them crying all their pent-up problems into their ale.

“After Hadriana…we…” Fenris raises his hands, lowers them again. Varric doubts that this is a case of embarrassment; he seems crestfallen, guilt and regret written out in the lines around his eyes.

“Figured,” Varric supplies helpfully. “That’s the logical conclusion to three years of shameless flirting. So what’s the problem?”

“I remembered pieces of my life, from before Danarius,” Fenris says stiffly. “Because of what we did.”

Varric eyes the elf. “Again, I ask—what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Fenris snaps, “is that I am a coward, and I ran the instant—” He stops himself, taking a deep breath. “It was too much,” he says at last, more evenly. “I can’t—I didn’t want—she doesn’t need my baggage. She will be happier without it.”

“Right,” Varric mutters.  _Idiots_ , he thinks affectionately. “You’re both so happy right now.”

“What concern is it of yours?” Fenris demands.

“The friendly kind,” Varric says lightly. “Hawke can take care of herself. You should give her some credit.”

The elf’s mouth pops open—an abrasive reply at the ready, no doubt—but at that moment, a guard shouts from down the path. The two of them vault out of sight behind a nearby hedge just before the guard clanks past them.

“Got them! Something just tripped in the vault—”

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris curses under his breath. The lyrium lights fully now, bathing him in a bluish glow.

“Hawke,” Varric agrees.

Fenris leaps back over the hedge before the guard has gone another five paces; with two short bounds, he has the man by the back of the neck. At the end of the path, the other guard freezes in the act of drawing his sword.

“If you have a way into the castle,” he says to the man wriggling in his grasp, “I’ll spare your life.”

“Key!” the voice inside the helmet gasps. “Pouch on the right, go on! Service entrance just behind me—”

The aggression isn’t to Varric’s taste, but it does get the job done. Fenris retrieves the key without a word and knocks the man out, depositing him back behind the hedge. The other man is not so lucky; he’s within range of Fenris, naked sword at the ready, when the elf phases and crushes a hand through his chestplate. A single gasp, and he’s dead before he hits the ground beside his still-breathing comrade.

“Well?” Fenris demands, his lips locked in a snarl.

Varric sighs, straightening up. “I’d like my crossbow, if you’re running off to be a big damn hero.”

Fenris doesn’t answer. Still glowering, he sets off for the service entrance.

“Orlais,” Varric mutters, brushing off his trousers. “Next time, leave me in Kirkwall, Hawke.”

“This was  _your_ blasted idea, dwarf!” Fenris growls over his shoulder.

With a resigned sigh, Varric follows him in.


	3. Chapter 3

It will be a long trip back to Kirkwall.

Hawke takes first watch when they stop for the night, too wired at having her sword back in her hand to sleep. Varric and Fenris settle in, close to the fire, and she allows herself one affectionate glance before turning her gaze on the woods around them.

This was just what she needed, really. Some time away, a mystery, a heist, a battle with a wyvern. Orlais breathed life back into her. The last month has been so dark--gaping with the absence of her longtime friend.

Sometimes, she wishes she hadn't pushed him that night. That she'd let him leave--flee, really. Things would be just the same as they had been before: the occasional secret smiles, reading lessons a few times a week, the joy of having him at her side in battle. But now she looks at him and has to see what she's lost, instead.

Varric snores. She settles her sword across her knees and reminds herself of the look on his face when he found her in that cell. Sheer, dizzying relief. Perhaps she hasn't lost him. Perhaps she just needs to be patient.

She snorts. Patience has never been her strong suit.

A throat clears beside her. She looks up, startled, to find the object of her thoughts gazing warily back at her.

"May I join you?" Fenris asks, as though he thinks that she'll turn him away.

She pats the rock beside her, trying not to smile. He sits, leaving a few inches of space between them.

"Looking forward to getting back to Kirkwall?" She keeps her voice pitched low. Varric snores again.

Fenris frowns. "Are you?"

She shrugs. "Oh, I don't know," she says, looking back to the woods. The crickets are finally quieting, their songs growing softer. "It was nice to get away. As far as parties go, it could have been worse."

"You were captured," he reminds her.

"It turned out all right."

"I was worried." His voice has gone quiet, a touch defeated. "I thought…"

She touches his shoulder. "You should know better," she teases. "Prosper's dogs are nothing compared to the Deep Roads."

He looks up; his eyes rest on her hand. "Hawke," he says.

She pulls back immediately, her face burning. "Sorry," she mutters. "I'll keep my hands to myself."

"No, I…" He sighs, a heavy sound full of frustration. " _I_ am sorry."

The silence is deep. She tries to find words to say--something that won't send him running--but there is nothing that she hasn't already said.

"I treated you very unfairly," he says at last.

"Can't argue there," she jokes feebly.

"But...I miss you." Her heart aches at the words. "I do not deserve it, but I hope that I can re-earn your trust. That we can be...friends...again. At least."

"It's not like we stopped being friends."

"But it's not the same," he says, turning to look at her, his green eyes mournful, "is it?"

She thinks back on the last lonely month--the long nights in her estate, the jobs she stopped relishing, the uncomfortable pit always present in her stomach.

"No," she says slowly. "It will never be the same. But things change. We can have something new. Maybe better."

His head tips to the side, considering. "You think so?"

"I can be patient," she tells him, echoing her earlier thoughts. "I'm not giving this up, Fenris. I  _won't_."

The corner of his mouth pulls into a smile. "You? Patient?"

She rolls her eyes. "You doubt me."

"Never," he says, tone dry.

He drapes an arm over her shoulder and, for a moment, pulls her near. She closes her eyes, hardly daring to breathe when he presses a kiss to her forehead. Her traitorous heart picks up speed.

He doesn't say anything else, and neither does she; she lets him watch the treeline over her head while she relishes this too-short contact. There is very little in her life in the way of comfort, but she can hold onto this: the look on his face when he found her alive, his sword at her back on the long road home, the warmth of his arms keeping her close.

Someday, the memory of that night will be a good one. She may not be patient, but she  _is_ stubborn. Even Fenris would attest to that.


End file.
